


Wrapped in Spellthread

by LuciferianRising



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arthur being a guarded grump, F/F, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Magic, Painfully sweet interactions, Rags to Riches, Royalty, Slow Build, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10957134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferianRising/pseuds/LuciferianRising
Summary: A simple mission to retrieve his two adopted boys from a treacherous noble environment lands Arthur in the Braginsky Manor. It's a temporary stay, until he can convince Alfred and Matthew to return home, but certain circumstances will see that he stays longer than intended. With the manor's illustrious tailor - Francis Bonnefoy - offering him work as a full-time modeling assistant, Arthur will have to bide his time until he can finally leave.Meanwhile, Alfred and Matthew will encounter their own endeavors, which consists of the manor's mysterious patriarch, and its painfully sweet matriarch.





	1. Snowglobe of a City

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, but this was another case of an AU refusing to leave my mind. I became so enamored with it, I decided to start up yet another fic. The pace at which this is written may vary, considering I have a very busy schedule this summer, but nonetheless, I hope everyone enjoys it! 
> 
> The **main** pairing is by far FrUK, but there will be instances of _CanUkr_ and _RusAme_. The priority of pairings will be in that order.

Many days have been stricken from Arthur’s mind in the last decade or so, but one still lies freshly at the forefront; a sore reminder of why the current situation was so grim, and why his heart was beating wildly away with anxious concern.

One doesn’t forget the day they become a parent, and fourteen year old farmhand Arthur is no different. Parenthood should be unfathomable for young men his age, but at the time of this distant memory, he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. It was certainly no option to turn away the two, little seven year-olds staring up at him with frightened, wide eyes, their bodies so tiny and fragile from malnourishment, that it literally brought him physical pain at the thought of leaving them alone. 

No, the memory remains as crisp and fresh as the moment in which it took place in. Arthur hadn’t spoken too much in their way, just simple questions of, “Are you lost?” and “Where are your parents?” The slow shakes of the boys’ heads had stolen the breath out of his lungs, leaving him bereft of anything else to say after that. He’d gathered one against his hip, and the other with their small arms wound around his neck, and made that sweltering, humid trek back to the humble little shack he called home. 

His brothers had not been happy, and honestly, Arthur couldn’t fault them. One doesn’t simply foster two young boys in one day, with no warning in advance. Arthur certainly didn’t have the credentials to be doing so, and two more mouths to feed would certainly make an already tough existence even more miserable. 

Still, he carved out a space for the two young boys, and they were no longer strangers, but rather, almost his sons; Alfred and Matthew, twins forsaken by their parents and the world, and more than Arthur had bargained for in many ways. 

It seemed with their arrival, they had brought a slew of rain storms with them, and while Matthew would cower at night under the sheets, Alfred would stare wide-eyed at the sky, like he was watching the most wondrous thing unfold. Later, when his eyes would eventually droop closed, the rain and thunder would subside, and Arthur would awake to fields quenched of their thirst, and a bounty of food enough to feed the little ones. Not by much, but enough to keep them under his lineage. 

It was as if God had taken a small mercy on him, and this would continue up until the day Arthur awoke to find the boys missing. 

Except, they are no longer boys, but rather, lanky, almost fully grown adolescents. Regardless, Arthur flies into a panic, searching through a house with rampant alarm, and waking his brothers from their hay cots. He chokes out a string of garbled words, fanning flimsy, wooden doors and pacing around the shack. They merely watch him, peeking out of their room every so often with red-rimmed, sleep crusted eyes, occasionally offering a half-hearted attempt at condolence. 

Arthur knows, however, that their words hold no real weight to them, and their awful attempts at appearing to be worried serve only to set him alight with anger as he turns his search towards the empty fields. Alfred and Matthew are, expectantly, nowhere to be seen, and it's only after an hour of relentless trips up and down the crop rows that Arthur finally gives up.

He retreats back to the shack, nearly collapsing in grief, his hands coming to cover his face as he sits there in guilt-ridden silence. Eventually, Arthur leans back against his seat, throwing his arm over his forehand, and his other to rest across the rickety wooden end table.

The sound of paper crinkling catches his attention, and he lifts his arm to reveal a wrinkled note resting underneath it. Arthur eyes it for a long moment, before scrambling to gather it up in his hands. The scrawl on the note is one that he could recognize anywhere - mostly due to its uneven, unrefined form. 

It's Alfred’s writing.

> _ 'Alright, step one is don't panic. You probably already did that, so here's step two: calm down.  _
> 
> _ Mattie and I are OK. We know what we’re doing and we've been talking about this for a long time. The thing is, we’re tired of making things harder on you, Artie. So we're gonna head off on our own and try to get some things rolling. _
> 
> _ I know what you’ve gotta be thinking, but really, it's fine. We're heading off to Rus, where we've heard from a few crop-buyers is doing pretty well for itself. Don't know what we're gonna do when we get there, but we'll figure it out. Mattie's smart, and you know that as well as I do. _
> 
> _ We appreciate everything you've done for us, Artie. But we're basically adults now, and there's really no reason we shouldn't be trying this. So don't freak out and go all protective parent mode on us. We'll be just fine. Take care of your big brothers, because Lord knows you're the only one with any common sense there. _
> 
> _ Love, Alfred and Matthew _
> 
> _ PS: I heard there's some major magic business in the city. I've never seen that stuff before, so I'm super excited to get the chance. I'll try to write back to you soon. I think they've got couriers leaving in and out of there everyday.’ _

Arthur barely allows himself enough patience to finish reading the note, before he's crumbling it up and tossing it across the room. It bounces off the wooden paneling, landing on the dirt-encrusted floor with barely more than a muted thud. Then, he's wrenching himself from his seat, storming into his once-shared room with Alfred and Matthew, and gathering a meager amount of amiable clothing. 

His racket must gather the attention of one of his brothers, because soon Allistor is peaking around his door frame, fixing him with a fuzzy, red-rimmed look, “What’s all the fuss for?”

“The boys have run off,” Arthur grits out, shoving a handful of clothing into a worn knapsack. “to a capital too big and complex for their tame, little minds.” He ties the opening of the knapsack closed, and slings the pitifully light bag over his shoulder. “I'm going to fetch them before they accidentally sell themselves off to a magister or something. Expect me back by tomorrow night.” 

Allistor cracks a smirk at him, his arms coming to cross as he regards Arthur with amusement, “They're not quite 'boys’ anymore, you know. Hell, they've almost outgrown you.”

Arthur shoves past him, disregarding his words entirely, “They're not conditioned for the thorny, social environment of a place like Rus. They'll be eaten alive within a matter of hours.”

“And how do you know any better?” Allistor shoots him an accusatory glare, a familiar air of contempt passing over him. 

It makes Arthur's skin crawl with annoyance, “Maybe because I actually took an interest in our mother’s teachings, before she passed away.” Arthur stands at the entrance to their shabby home, the rising sun cresting over his shoulders and casting his shadow towards his brother. “It might do you some good to read a book sometime, instead of the label on a drink, Allistor.” 

He leaves him with those words, and receives none in return as he closes the door behind himself. If Allistor had any objections to Arthur leaving, he doesn't seem to be willing to fight for them. Good, Arthur thinks, because his soured mood didn’t leave much room for a levelheaded discussion this foul morning.

 

* * *

 

Arthur has not personally traveled the wooded roads leading to Rus, but there is an abundance of signs pointing the way towards the bustling city.

As the hours tick by, and the sun passes slowly over the sky, Arthur finds the air cooling to a chilly degree, and suddenly the sun is no longer able to be seen, hidden sneakily behind billowing, grey clouds that seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere. 

The dirt road eventually parts off into a neatly cobbled one, and Arthur passes by a stray, roadside inn, and the occasional parked carriage. Travelers, no doubt, seeing as how the carriages were nothing out of the ordinary. He doubted nobles would be passing along this road without ample protection, anyway. 

Another hour in, and the first few flakes of snow begin to pelt Arthur’s face. He peers up at the darkening sky, taking note that the change in weather climate is too drastic to be normal. He muses that it must be the doing of a set of magisters nearby. It was only early autumn, after all. Much too soon for a normal snowfall back home. 

Manipulating the weather was not an unknown practice of those gifted with magic, and even if Arthur himself lacked those very talents, he had heard plenty about it from his late mother, and the occasional traveller passing by. Still, it wasn't something to addle his mind with, so he merely pulls up the hood on his cloak and continues the chilly trek along the road.

Soon, city walls emerge over the tops of the snow-blanketed pine trees, and the glinting shine of a guard’s dull, metallic armor catches Arthur’s eyes. He prays that this city doesn't have a strict checkpoint, but then decided that if that were true, he perhaps would have found Alfred and Matthew further back along the road. 

As he approaches, there is a small crowd of citizens passing under the large gate. Arthur pays close attention, listens for any indication of a closed premise, but finds none. When a guard levels him with an unknown look through his closed helmet, Arthur stiffens visibly, waiting for him to speak first. 

He stamps a plated foot against the cobblestone, his voice coming out gruff and authoritative, “Citizen, traveler, or courier?”

“Traveler,” Arthur murmurs quietly, and clears his throat before repeating just a bit louder, “Traveler, sir.” 

The guard cants his head, seeming to observe him closely for a few moments. A plated hand reaches forward, feeling along the perimeter of Arthur’s knapsack, before retreating back to the guard’s side. He nods at Arthur, seeming satisfied with whatever he didn't find. “No trouble inside the city limits, traveler.” He waves Arthur forward.

A long breath gusts pasts Arthur’s chapped lips, held in a moment of pure apprehension as the guard hovered over him. He nods slowly, and proceeds forward, emerging into a bustling square of humanity as he does.

Shops decorated with hanging, colorful lights brighten a snow-dusted street. Lamps of ethereal, violet fire float above their braziers, the embers cascading off of them catching Arthur’s eyes in bewilderment. He catches sight of a heavily robed woman walking down the line of waning braziers, her hand casting a flicking motion before the dying fires burst back to life again. 

Only a few moments in, and he can already see how dominant magic must be in this city. 

Still, as much as a smaller part of Arthur would love to to wander around aimlessly, letting himself get lost in an art that he's never personally seen before, he knows that the time separating him from the boys is more important. Every second widens the gap between him and Alfred and Matthew, and the longer he waddles around, the further off they could be.

He begins walking rapidly, his head turning every which way. 

The cloak of his hood remains over his head, giving him a bit of anonymity. But there's no denying that he must stick out like a sore thumb, what with his painfully plain and heavily worn clothing, and sagging knapsack that holds no more than a pound or two of items. The men and women around him boast colorful, well-tailored outfits, with cloaks made of silk and velvet, and embroidered with the most beautiful, glinting thread he’s ever seen. Arthur could only dream of wearing such frivolous, high-class clothing, and a corner of his heart burns with jealousy at the prospect. 

The city streets seem to crawl on forever, only offering more and more strangers to Arthur, and a growing sense of concern pooling in his empty stomach. Suddenly, his brash exit this morning seems more and more ill-thought in hindsight, considering he didn't pack the first scrap of food, or the first piece of coin on his being… not that his savings had much to offer. 

His stomach rumbles, and the beginnings of a headache have him squinting through the cold winds. The idea of having to spend a night out on these freezing streets paints a deep frown on his face. He thinks of Alfred and Matthew, shivering in the cold of the unforgiving night, huddled together with not the first copper piece to their name - not that copper could probably afford much here - and his expression quickly morphs into one of distress.

“Stupid, stupid boys… utter children, I swear. Not the slightest idea of the trouble they've gotten into…” There's no true hostility to Arthur's voice, just a small attempt at consoling his quickening heartbeat. 

He gathers his cloak against himself, trying to close out the intensifying wind and snow flurries. Eventually, he has to squint his eyes to keep the cold from drying them out and making them burn. An hour passes, with no foreseeable trail of his boys, and no indicator of where they may have gone. Arthur finds himself becoming more and more fatigued, a dull sort of hopelessness settling into his bones as the streets begin to thin out. 

He stumbles into a fairly empty opening near a fenced-in establishment, an assortment of wire-frame, ivory benches lining what appears to be the perimeter of a garden. Arthur collapses onto one of the benches, the chill of the metal biting through his thin cloak at his legs. Like the morning earlier, he covers his face with his hands, his cloak falling back to reveal tousled, blond hair. “This is utterly hopeless.”

“-ey, c’mon! Gardening is totally my thing! It's like… in my blood, or my lineage or whatever. Ain’t that right, Matt?”

Arthur’s head shoots up.

“He’s not lying.”

He tears himself away from the bench, ears straining to discern where the voices were coming from.

“Yeah! And Mattie here? One of the smartest guys ever. Seriously, no one catches onto stuff like he does. You can show the guy anything, and he'll figure it out in no time.” 

There’s another, deeper voice that Arthur doesn't recognize. The tone of it suggests exasperation. “You do realize that you can't just waltz up to someone, demanding a job? No less one at this manor of all places-”

“We're not demanding though! We're begging! C’mon, man. We need this work, and all the other places around here have said no, and this was the last place we thought to try. Don't make me beg, because I will. I'll get down on my knees and do it, I swear.”

The stranger sighs, “Please don't do tha-”

“ _ Too late _ ! I'm doing it!”

Arthur rounds the corner to find Alfred kneeling on the ground, head pressed to the tips of what seems to be a guard’s boots. Said guard is pinching the bridge of his nose, helmetless like his fellow peers, and sporting armor that glints a bright gold rather than the dull bronze Arthur had been seeing. His pauldrons sport accents unlike the others, carved feathers and symbols decorating the plate like a complex mosaic. 

And then there was Matthew, peering down at Alfred with an equal amount of embarrassment plastered to his face. 

Arthur makes it a point to stomp as loudly as he can, his echoing footsteps catching not only the guard’s, but Alfred’s attention as well. One, blue eye opens to catch Arthur’s stomping form advancing forward, and widens in apparent alarm.

“Oh, shit.” 

The guard glances down at Alfred, and his mouth opens to speak, perhaps ask a question, but then Arthur is bellowing over him, “Alfred! Matthew!” Matthew turns at the noise, the color seemingly draining from his face as he purses his lips, hands coming up in a motion of immediate surrender. “Why, the nerve of you two! All my days, I cannot believe you two would do something so hare-brained! Do you not understand the amount of trouble you could have flung yourself into? We'll, don't just stand there and gawk, answer me!” 

The guard steps away from Alfred, freeing his boots of the other’s face, his arms coming to cross as he observed Arthur with calculative, bright blue eyes. “Your father, I presume?” 

“Sort of.” Alfred mumbles halfheartedly, pushing himself to his knees, and then his feet. He mimics Matthew’s stance, hands held out to stop Arthur before he tries to drag them away. “Artie, calm down. That was step two, buddy. Did you forget already?”

“Oh, don't you dare try to joke with me. Leaving without any forewarning, taking such a huge, dangerous risk! I'm appalled! Furthermore, I won't hear the first bit of it from you. We're going home.  _ Now _ .” Arthur jerks his thumb behind himself, eyes narrowed into furious slits.

Matthew seems to sigh in resignation, but Alfred mirrors Arthur’s glare, his hand shooting out to keep Matthew from moving forward. “See, here's the thing, Artie. Last time I checked, Matt and I were adults. So you know what that means, right? We get to do adult things, and one of the first adult things I'm gonna do is get a job from this guy. Right, buddy?” Alfred directs his eyes to the guard. He seems to be just as equally indisposed as before. 

“Again, I don’t think you-”

“Oh, no you won't. Besides, where would you even stay out here, Alfred? Did you not take into consideration that perhaps money and shelter may be factors in this? You and Matthew will freeze to death! Come home, now.” Arthur spares Matthew a softer glance, though hesitation seems to have formed upon his face. 

Alfred’s rebelliousness was always infectious.

“You know what? I'm just gonna say it. No. N-O. I've already made up my mind, and I'm sticking to it, and not you, or this guard,” Said guard holds up his hand, as if in objection, “or anyone is going to convince me other-”

“Ludwig? What is all that yelling outside? 

All four heads turn to the closed off gate, where the light, feminine voice had emanated from. The guard - Ludwig, presumably - rubs at his temple, “Nothing, Lady Katyusha. Just some travelers passing through.”

“Oh?” 

The sound of the gate creaking open breaks the growing monotony of the emptying streets. A delicate, pale hand creeps around, pulling the gate open to reveal a tall, full-figured woman sporting light, silvery hair. On her form lie flowing garments, all white and blue in color, and various pieces of pearl and ivory jewelry wrapped around her wrists and neck. Deep, blue eyes framed by white lashes gazed upon the three strangers with open curiosity. Then, her lips spread into an welcoming smile.

“Travelers? Of what sort? Tourists, perhaps?”

Ludwig glances nervously behind himself, drawing in a stalling breath before answering, “Not quite. I'm afraid-”

“Hey lady! You own this place? You look like you do. Anyway, I need a job really bad, and so does my brother here, and we were just in the middle of negotiating some stuff with your guy here,” Alfred nudges Ludwig, as if they were the most casual of friends, “but we can't come to an agreement. So how about it? That job, I mean. I noticed you had a really mean looking garden, and I kind of specialize in that sort of field. Right, Matt?” 

There's no immediate reply, and Alfred turns to find his brother staring ahead, his lips parted on air. He nudges Matthew, earning a surprised jump out of him. 

“Oh… right. Right. Alfred is… good at that sort of thing. Really. Good.” Matthew swallows visibly, and averts his eyes elsewhere. 

“See? Certifiable evidence! So what do you say, Lady? I promise it'll be the best decision you’ve ever made in your life.” Alfred clasps his hands together, like a businessman closing in on a deal well made. 

Ludwig shakes his head, as if the notion is unfathomable. He turns to the woman -  _ Katyusha _ \- and breathes out an apology, “Lady Katyusha, I am terribly sorry for this disturbance. I'll escort them off the premise immediately.” 

“As you should. Alfred, Matthew, I hope the two of you have learned a valuable lesson from this mess-” Arthur goes abruptly quiet as Kayusha’s voice cuts him off. 

She holds her hand up, calling for silence. “Tell me, strangers, what your situation is? It must be dire, for you to have ever approached us like this.” 

Alfred’s smile seems to brighten at that, and his mouth opens to answer her, but only the first word makes its way out before Matthew is speaking over him, “It is. Alfred and I, we come from a very humble farm. For years, our caretaker, Arthur-” He motions to the cloaked man whose expression seems to be growing more and more perturbed by the second, “took care of us. But with an already tough living, I'm sure you can imagine how much harder it must have gotten. We felt so guilty, that we took it upon ourselves to leave and try to make it on our own. So that brings us to the current moment, you see.” Matthew turns his eyes to Alfred, his smile turning tender. “Alfred is eccentric, but he's one of the hardest workers I've ever seen. He’ll do anything you need. So please, even if you can only take one of us, take him. I'll go back home with Arthur.” 

“Matt, no, c’mon… we were gonna do this as a team, and that's the way it's gotta be.” Alfred seems to deflate, his shoulders slumping and expression turning crestfallen. Arthur looks on with unwavering disappointment, waiting for the moment when the boys will undoubtedly be turned down.

Except, that moment doesn't come. Instead, Katyusha spares Matthew a sympathetic look, her already soft features somehow conveying a look even more comforting than before. “I see… that is a grim set of circumstances. And the two of you seem so determined. What a waste it would be to turn away such eager, young men.” 

Ludwig’s expression turns baffled, as does Arthur’s, and he takes a cautionary step towards Katyusha. “Lady Katyusha, do you really think it would be wise to do this? Your brother might object to-”

“My brother can answer to me. We are equals, he and I, and I have as much right to make my own decisions as he does.” Katyusha turns back towards the gate, sparing only a momentary glance over a poff of clothing covering her shoulder. “Ludwig, escort our new employees to their temporary quarters. I will pass off this information to Ivan. Tomorrow, I will speak with our new friends again.” 

As Katyusha disappears into the confines of the garden once more, Alfred’s mouth spreads into a large grin, and he wastes no time with hugging Matthew from behind and nearly hoisting him off his feet. “Man, that was awesome! Matt, you got such a way with words. Or maybe just girls, but whatever it is, I can't believe that actually worked!” He turns toward Arthur, whose lips have turned down into an intense scowl. “See Artie? Told you so! Everything is A-OK now and you can go home, because Matt and I are gonna be just fine.” 

“I am not leaving, unless it's with you boys in tow. I don't give a single damn if by some far-fetched chance, you happened to secure a job. The environment of this place wasn't meant for you boys, and it'll only be a matter of time before someone takes advantage of that! I refuse to leave.” Arthur plants his foot sternly on the cobbled walkway, eyes flitting from Alfred to Matthew. 

Ludwig pays no mind to the tirade, instead choosing to clasp both Alfred and Matthew by their shoulders, “We should head inside then, if you're ready. I can't waste much more time out here as it is.” 

Alfred turns away from Arthur, more than pleased and willing to ignore everything he just said, “Now you're speaking my language. C’mon, Matt. Let's check out what kind’ve place this is.” 

The guard nudges Alfred towards the well-lit manor, and Matthew makes a motion to follow, though a moment of hesitation has him sparing Arthur a look of condolence. Arthur fixes him with a hard-eyed stare, and the callousness of it has Matthew turning away quickly and following Alfred through the gate. 

Ludwig allows the twins to proceed before him, holding the gate open as Alfred’s excited voice begins to drift off. His bright, unreadable eyes find Arthur, still standing defiantly in the increasingly cold streets, the snow already starting to accumulate in small patches over his cloak. His thin brows would furrow, perhaps in consideration, before a thumb would be pointed towards the gate.

“What are you getting on at?” Arthur’s voice would be guarded, skeptical of what Ludwig had to say.

“Come inside. It's much too cold to be spending a night on the street.” 

“You're kidding,” Arthur breathes out a hollow laugh, almost mocking in tone. “I refuse to freeload off of nobles.”

“Then come inside, and find a purpose here. Your boys seem to have done as much, so you should be able to as well.” Ludwig’s gaze turns critical, hard. Suddenly he’s less of an unfortunate guard, and more of the authority figure he's supposed to be. It has Arthur’s throat turning dry. 

“I don't expect to stay longer than a night.” 

Ludwig nods, and holds the gate open for Arthur to pass through, “Your decision, and not mine.”

 

* * *

 

Alfred and Matthew are gone by the time Arthur has settled inside, and with how the hallways go on and on and wind mercilessly around each other, he doesn't make an attempt to find either of them.

Ludwig leaves him resting on a chaise lounge, ordering for him to stay put until someone can deal with him accordingly. Arthur let's his knapsack slide off his back, resting the barely filled bag against the side of his leg as he sits and takes in his surroundings.

The manor in which he’s in is lavishly decorated, with silver, white, and blue seeming to dominate most of the colors he sees. Crystal chandeliers and faux roses line the ceilings and walls, with blue-flamed lamps burning dimly every few feet or so. 

Heavy, velvet curtains frame arching windows, their glass panels sporting intricate wooden frames and designs. The floor beneath his feet is blindingly white marble, and the small specks of dirt and slush he leaves underneath his shoes makes him feel like an unwanted pest invading this place. 

The occasional servant passes by him, sparing him looks ranging from curiosity, to bewilderment, and even the occasional upturned stare of contempt. Arthur is certain to glare extra hard at the latter. 

Time drags on mercilessly, the steady tick-tock of a nearby clock permeating Arthur’s mind. He's taken to tapping his foot against the marble to the steady tune, half out of boredom and half out of nervousness. He begins to feel more and more alienated as the minutes tick by, feeling like a large puzzle piece trying to fit into the smallest of slots. There's a moment where he considers pulling his hood over his face, but then whoever was coming for him might not recognize who they were looking for.

It's a late hour by the time someone does come, and Arthur has taken to leaning against the cushioned side of his seat, half dozed off and arms crossed protectively over his abdomen. The soft, lilting voice has to speak twice before he’s cracking his eyes open, bleary from fatigue and short-lived sleep. 

He rubs at his eyes, stifling a yawn out of politeness, and peers up past his hand to spot a well-dressed man standing over him, sporting a slightly confused expression on his delicate face. Arthur has to do a double-take when he sees him, however, because he was not expecting someone so handsome to be sent for him. 

The man standing over him resembles the lavish dress of Katyusha, though his clothing is more male oriented and darker in color. White-gloved hands are clasped together, their wrists disappearing underneath highly detailed cuffs. As Arthur’s eyes trail up, they meet the face of a man with shimmering blue eyes, and light blonde hair pulled back into almost a side pony-tail, though many strands lie free from the white bow that tries to hold them. A meager dusting of facial hair lines his face, though it's bright blonde color might give the indication that he was clean-shaven at a distance. 

Arthur says nothing, only waits in what seems to be partially stunned silence before the man speaks again. “Arthur, I presume?”

Still no words, but he manages to nod.

“Oh, good. I was beginning to think I had found the wrong person.” The man laughs almost nervously, though it feels more forced than anything. “Ludwig sent me to find you. I am Francis Bonnefoy. I am supposed to be showing you to a room.” Francis holds out his hand, to which Arthur merely stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time, before realizing that he wants a handshake. 

He offers his own hand in return, feeling almost like a grimy stain for letting himself touch someone so refined and beautiful. “Arthur Kirkland. I…” He contemplates what to say, doubting that Francis had any inclination towards him besides what he looked like and his name. “I had a pair of rowdy boys show up here demanding work. I plan on staying until tomorrow, and then returning home with them.” 

Francis spares him an amused smile, “Sounds like quite the thorny situation, though from what I gathered from Ludwig, they seem to have found a spot here inside the Braginsky manor.” 

“They're children, they haven't the slightest idea of what they're doing,” Arthur grumbles, allowing his hand to fall away from Francis’. “So that's the owner of this estate? Katyusha and her brother?”

“And their little sister, but shhh, don't speak her name aloud.” Francis glances down both ends of the hallway, before allowing himself to laugh. “I am kidding, of course. The three siblings get along perfectly, though Natalia is prone to foul moods. Just stay clear of her path, and you will make it just fine.”

“Well,” Arthur begins, trying to envision what the other two siblings looked like, “Like I said, I don't plan on staying past tomorrow.”

Francis shrugs at him, though there's a coy motion about it. “We will see. You may find that the weather here can shift unpredictably, so only time will tell if that remains true. But regardless of all that, let me show you to your quarters for the night.” A hand is offered once again, though this time as assistance. 

Arthur eyes it for a moment, before disregarding it entirely and standing on his own. He hears a light whisper of a sigh from Francis. “Quickly then. I'm exhausted.”

Francis leads him down a few winding hallways, and up a winding spiral staircase to the second floor. Here, there are more servants roaming about, and it's clear that this is where the manor’s employees must reside. Still, the second floor is no less opulent than the first, and even sports a grand view of the garden below. Arthur studies it as they pass by, noting that only snow-lilies and the occasional white rose seems to be blooming.

“A bare garden for such frivolous nobles.” He comments dryly.

“You must understand that the weather conditions only permit certain flowers to grow. If it were possible, Lord Ivan and especially the two Ladies would want more.” Arthur spies Francis peering down at the garden as well.

“Then why is it that I hear constantly from strangers that this place is purposely converted into a permanent winter biome? If his 'Lordship’ wanted more flowers, you'd think he'd use his brain when it came to the type of weather he needed.” Arthur also doesn't miss the concerned look that passes over his face at the mention of 'Ivan’ in such a careless manner. 

“It is more complicated than than that, Arthur. You must think that we employ magisters to keep this city blanketed in snow. I assure you that we do not.”

Arthur pauses in the hallway, causing Francis to come to a standstill as well. “Then what is the reason for all of this cold nonsense?” 

“Lord Ivan cannot make the snowfall cease. In fact, as long as his heart beats, it will never stop, and anyone carrying his family’s bloodline will carry with them snow wherever they may roam.” Francis gazes out the window, up into the dark sky that seems to be spitting out an endless amount of flurries. “Seems more like a curse than a blessing of magic, hm?” 

“A major inconvenience. He should consider himself lucky that he was born into luxury like this. I imagine if our positions were reversed, he would starve to death before too long.” The more Francis speaks of the manor’s patriarch, the more Arthur finds himself becoming annoyed with the prospect of perhaps meeting him.

“You may think that, but he would kill with his bare hands before he let himself starve to death, let alone his sisters. It might do you well not to undersell him. I say this from a point of concern on your behalf.” 

“Hmph.” Arthur doesn't comment on the matter past that. 

Instead, the two resume their walk around the servant’s quarters, with Francis picking up the lead. Arthur watches as his coattails bounce with each step, their length nearly brushing the bottom on the floor. His eyes study the expert threadwork on them, and he occasionally glances at the pitiful clothing he's wearing in comparison. 

He shouldn't feel bad, he thinks. He won't be here long enough for it to matter, anyway.

“What do you do around here?” He finds himself asking instead.

Francis turns to face him, though he doesn't stop walking. Instead, he walks backwards as he answers Arthur, “I am a tailor to the Braginskys. You see this,” Francis smooths his hands down the silken vest he wears, pointing to the trousers he’s donning along with the various accents lining them. “I made this, along with numerous other items for the siblings. I occasionally take orders outside of the manor as well, though most of my work stays inside this estate. A pity, that is. But the Lord and Ladies do pay handsomely for it.” Francis shoots Arthur a wink.

“How exciting.” 

“Oh?” Francis levels him with a complacent stare. “I assure you, the quality of my work supersedes what you are most likely used to. Tell me, Arthur, do you know anything of spellthread?”

Ashamedly, he does not. “Never heard of it.”

“Exactly! That is because most people would rather channel their magic into other mediums. But  _ moi _ ? I see its practicality in other uses. For example, wouldn't it be lovely if your clothes stayed cool or warm no matter what the conditions were like? One could, perhaps, weave a bit of ice magic into their thread, and produce the most wonderfully cool vestments this side of the city.”

“You do that?” Arthur asks, unable to keep the wonder out of his tone.

“I do that.” Francis smiles at him, and then he's turning and letting loose a sound of acknowledgement. “Ah, here we go.” His hand fishes into a pocket on his trousers, and he procures a brass key from it. “Your new quarters, Arthur.” He hands the key over, and Arthur takes it carefully, noting that the key is much fancier than any he's ever seen before.

“Right then. Well. Thank you for the escort.” 

“Of course, but, ahh… Arthur, if I may ask, what do you plan on doing here? In the event that you can't convince your charges to leave with you?” There's something thoughtful in Francis’ voice, to which Arthur isn't sure of what.

“Firstly, they  _ will _ leave with me. Secondly, I haven't the slightest idea, nor do I care, because it won't matter tomorrow.” Arthur rolls the key around in his hand, anticipating the moment when he'll be able to collapse into a warm bed.

“Right.” Francis begins, but his tone suggests heavy doubt. “Well, in the case that you were to stay here for an extended amount of time, you  _ would _ need work. And it just so happens that I am looking for a full-time assistant. You see, many of the servants here are already working full-time jobs.” 

“Ignoring the fact that I won't be around to take that offer, I don't know the slightest bloody thing about making clothing to begin with.” It was true. Most of his clothing was hand-me-downs from his older brothers, or purchased cheaply from travelling merchants.  

Francis shakes his head, “Oh no, no experience needed. I merely need a model with which to fit my clothing to. While it is true that I have mannequins, they don't really offer much in regards to criticism, you see. One of my biggest issues with spellthread is getting the temperature just right, and having a live model would do wonders for me.” 

“Excuse me, what?” Arthur can help but shoot a flabbergasted look at him. “You want me to model for you while you literally sew clothes around me?” 

“What? Oh, no. No, the mannequins will still do just fine. All I would need from you is some patience and cooperation while I fit you with them. I might make some alterations here and there, but mostly, I just need your opinion on how they feel.” Francis crosses his arms behind his back, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if he could barely contain his enthusiasm at the idea. “So, what do you say, Arthur?” 

Arthur draws back, feeling widely uncomfortable with such a pretty face looming so close. Not that Francis’ presence is off-putting, just more so that Arthur feels unworthy to be so near to him. “The situation remains the same, so I don’t see how it matters.”

“Just in case?” Francis pouts, actually  _ pouts _ at him, and Arthur has to resist the urge to scowl and shove him away. 

“Fine. Fine! Whatever you want to hear. Just… I think I’m ready to turn in for the night.” 

Finally, mercifully, Francis leans back, giving Arthur a wide berth of personal space again. “I can take a hint. But, remember our agreement.” Francis steps back, giving a small, courteous bow to Arthur as he does. “Goodnight, Arthur. I hope these awful winds won’t keep you up too late.” 

“I don’t imagine they will.” He receives a parting wink before Francis turns to walk away, Arthur tries not to let the subtle shaking of his hands become too noticeable as he unlocks the door to his spare room. 

When the door does swing open, it’s nearly too dark to make out anything in the room, windowless due to its position in the hallway and lacking any lit lamps. But as Arthur takes a step inside, a violet flame comes to life in one of the sconces, lighting his way to his bed and illuminating a good portion of the room. He glances about himself, taking in all the lavish decorations and accents lining the walls, amazed that even the servant’s quarters could be so well kept. 

His bed is a four-poster canopy, sporting blue silken curtains hanging from the top and draping over the bed’s sides. Arthur slowly walks forward, letting his bag slide off of his arm in lieu of dragging his hand across the bed sheets. They’re soft, softer than a hay-filled cot, that’s for sure. The scent coming from the sheets is like a hundred gardens rolled into one, and Arthur breathes it all in deep ly, eyes coming to close as the smallest of content smiles graces his face. 

He allows himself to fall forward onto the bed, not even bothering to shuck off his cloak or underclothes, because suddenly he is exhausted, and this bed is like a siren’s song, beckoning him to come lie with it. The light emanating from the sconce seems to dim somewhat, turning most of the room’s features into large, imposing shadows against the wall. 

Distantly, through a mind addled with weariness, he can hear the sound of strong winds battering against the manor, casting ominous whispers through the hallways and the cracks in the doors. Arthur thinks that that must be what Francis was speaking of, though he honestly doesn’t find it that bad of a noise. It was much better than the stifling silence and heat of a late summer night.

For a few moments, he wonders about tomorrow, and how he can possibly convince Alfred and Matthew to give up this ridiculous farce that they’re so dedicated to. He can’t conjure up any intelligent plans or conversations at the moment, so he deigns it a cause for tomorrow morning, and allows his eyes to shut completely.

He sleeps like a rock, undisturbed and buried in a mountain of fluffy sheets. 


	2. Dealings Upon Dealings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day brings a slew of negotiations. Alfred is pleased, Matthew is pleasantly surprised, and Arthur? Oh-so-annoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the ridiculous amount of exposition in regards to everyone's upcoming business in this chapter. But, it's one of those things that has to be dealt with, lest everyone not get a vague idea of the character roles at work here. The next few chapters promise a lot of world/relationship building!

For once, it is not Arthur who wakes up first, but it’s someone else rousing him from sleep instead.

He barely has time to register where he’s at, nor does he remember at first the events of yesterday, so his sleep-fogged mind flies into a panic when he doesn’t recognize the room he’s in. Whoever is speaking to him falls silent as he wrenches away from the bed, tumbling down onto the floor below it, and dragging nearly all the blankets off of it with him.

Arthur sways and fights to free himself from fabric that is much too soft to be his own, and succeeds after a few shameful moments of rolling around in it. He pulls the duvet free from his head, hair terribly tousled and sticking up in a hundred odd angles, and glances about the unfamiliar room with panicked eyes.

Eventually, they land on the person responsible for disturbing his sleep, and find that the expression on their face is one of bafflement. Arthur stares for a moment, trying to peg who this man is, with his tied back, neat curls and waves, and striking blue eyes, and then it all comes rushing back to him.

He lowers his head into his hands, rubbing at his face with shame burning at his cheeks for his ungraceful flop. Francis seems to take that as his cue to speak, “I had no idea you were so jumpy. Perhaps I should have one of the servants wake you from here on out.”

Arthur groans, tries to smooth down his hair, and finds that it’s sticking to his head and refusing to lie flat. “This place is unfamiliar. It’s not like I do that on a regular basis. And what do you mean, ‘from here on out’?”

“Ah, you see,” Francis extends a hand forward, offering to help Arthur to his feet. He can’t bring himself to ignore it this time, figuring that there was no need to try and save face, so he takes it begrudgingly. “Well… I think you should take a look for yourself.”

Francis leads him out of the room, and it’s a short trek before Arthur is glancing out into the garden again. Only this time, the dusting of snow on the bushes has turned into a good foot, and the sky seems intent with building onto that measurement. Arthur presses his fingertips against the glass, feeling the biting chill of the outside permeating it, and has to suppress another groan.

Francis comes to stand beside him, a hand placed on his hip while the other smooths back a stray strand of hair. “Like I said, very unpredictable.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I am afraid not, Arthur. It seems as though you and your boys will be here longer than anticipated. But that shouldn’t be a problem for you, no? After all, you do have work lined up here.” Francis smiles at him, expectantly, and Arthur suddenly recalls the deal he’d made with him last night.

“I can’t actually stay here. I promised my brothers I would be back tonight, and if that means dragging myself and the boys through snow, then I won’t hesitate to do it.” Despite his bravado, Arthur knows it’s a foolish plan of action, but at the same time, he can’t help but object.

“That would be suicide! You’d freeze to death, and so would your charges. I think even the guards would be apt to keep you inside the city. Please, don’t force yourself out there.” Francis levels him with a pleading look, which has Arthur turning his eyes away. “Besides, if you are so desperate to get back to your brothers, you can send a letter. There are couriers equipped to move about in these conditions, unlike yourself.”

It’s true. Arthur’s clothes aren’t meant to brave the harsh conditions of this land’s magical weather. By the time he made it back to his home - if he even made it back, that is - he’d probably have to say goodbye to some of his fingers and toes, no doubt blackened by frostbite.

Still, he doesn’t say anything, though he knows Francis is waiting for his agreement. He’s still adamantly opposed to having anything to do with this manor, even if it is only temporary. After all, how long could a blizzard really last? The snow would eventually have to melt.

“Here,” Francis places a tentative hand on Arthur’s side, to which the other notices that he’s lacking the gloves this morning, and urges him down the hallway. “I think your next plan of action can be debated upon once you’ve cleaned up a bit and had a good breakfast. Besides, Lady Katyusha has informed me that she wants to speak to you and your boys, so you will have to be presentable.”

“I’m not speaking to that woman under false guise.” Arthur grumbles, though he does have to suppress interest at the possibility of a bath, and a good one at that.

“False guise? Are you really so opposed to wearing my clothing that much, Arthur?” There it is again, that pouting tone of his, and Arthur isn’t sure if it actually incites guilt or annoyance. Perhaps a mixture of both. “Besides, wouldn’t that be fun? To see yourself in something different? I think it would be.”

“Your opinions and mine are obviously different.”

“I know, and isn’t that fascinating? I’ve already had so much fun with our conversations.”

Arthur makes a discontent noise, and steps away from Francis’ leading hand. “I’m not a piece of entertainment for you, Mr. Bonnefoy-”

“Just Francis is fine.”

" _Francis_ ,” Arthur grounds out. “I’m here for one thing and one thing only, and that’s Alfred and Matthew. I don’t intend on staying longer than three days, or however long it takes this bloody blizzard to pass over. I’ll meet with your Lady, and play the part, but don’t get so gung-ho on the idea of us being business partners.”

“I don’t quite understand why you are so opposed…”

“Because I don’t need the distraction! There’s no sense in sinking time into a job that I won’t have in a week. Besides, wouldn’t it take you a decent amount of time to sew something? I’ll be gone before you even finish a piece!” Arthur notes how the expression on Francis’ face seems to turn almost somber, his lips turning down into a frown.

“But you did agree, last night… Are you so eager to go back on your agreement, Arthur?” Francis tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, his eyes looking anywhere but at Arthur.

Arthur draws in a deep breath, and then sighs, letting most of his irritation leave him in a contrite sigh. He let’s his voice soften to a certain degree, feeling just a tad bit bad at his coarse behavior. “Fine. Yes, I did agree to it. But what I’m trying to get across is that the agreement will never come to fruition.”

They walk right past the spiraling staircase, and pass into an area that feels just the slightest bit warmer. Arthur can feel humidity in the air, like a warm mist trying to hug his face. He decides that they must be near the bathing quarters. If so, then he prays he won’t have to share a bathroom with complete strangers.

Francis stops him short of a door, and Arthur notes that a series of pipes littered with valves seem to disappear into the walls around it. Every so often, a gust of steam will hiss out, and he makes certain not to accidentally lay his hand on any of the super-heated pipes. “Again, only time will tell. Allow me to remind you that you’ve already been wrong once. Not to mention that the severity of these storms might surprise you.” Francis motions to the sealed door. “We will talk more of it later, though. Please, help yourself.”

“Clothing?” Arthur asks tentatively.

“I will have a set sitting out for you when you’re done. Come downstairs when you’re ready.” Francis steps away, gives Arthur that courteous bow again, and leaves him to his own devices.

Arthur watches him disappear around the bend of the hallway, shaking his head at Francis’ stubborn offer. He can’t decide if he’s being pushy, or overly helpful, but neither explanation erases the fact that it’s beginning to get under Arthur’s skin… mostly because he’s been correct about everything, thus far.

He pushes open the door, and surprisingly finds that the pipes don’t open here, but instead lead into several rooms. The one he’s standing in now is more of a dressing station, with several shelves lining the walls and boasting bottles of things Arthur has never seen before. He walks around the room, taking in the pieces of furniture and bathing products, and noting that mirrors are definitely in an abundance.

The rooms branching off from his position are bright white, with floors made of smooth, slick stone rather than wood or marble. Pools of steaming water and pipes gushing out a torrent of heated rain can be found in each one. Arthur is grateful to see that there seems to be no one else present, perhaps because he was awoken at a later hour than usual.

He spends a good portion of his time merely opening the bottles, sniffing each of them critically, and reading their fancy labels with just the tiniest bit of resentment, because really, this is all too much. He doesn’t understand why a person has to have thirty different scents available to them, but then again, he doesn’t come from nobility, so he’s not sure he’ll ever understand.

Eventually, Arthur does settle into the water, choosing the pool over the faucets, because it’s more familiar to him. Though, he finds that the sturdy, smooth seats are much better for sitting than a muddy or rocky bank on the side of a river. The temperature of the water is a vast contrast between the typically freezing temps of a stream, and Arthur can’t help but sit there just a little longer than needed, before he sets to actually washing himself.

When he finishes, he emerges cleaner than he’s felt in a long, long time, and smelling like a rose fresh out of the garden. It’s an awkward feeling, leaving him shambling around the bath house like a stranger in his own body, and feeling his skin with alien hands, because it’s never felt so soft before. The only thing that remains is the callouses adorning his fingers, blemishes gained from years of hard fieldwork, and the familiarity of it is comforting.

Arthur steps into the dressing room, and finds a set of dark green clothing sitting on the middle of the bench, placed in plain sight just for him. He’s not too sure what to do with his old clothes, and upon picking them up to set them elsewhere, he finds that they smell like a mixture of soil, sweat, and stale water.

His nose actually scrunches up, and there’s a moment where he feels nothing but chagrin, knowing just what he smelled like. He suddenly feels like a wet sewer rat, having wormed its way into an upstanding house to leech off of whatever it could find inside.

He unfolds the new clothing forcefully, fanning it out and finding it to be three separate pieces instead of one. A pair of coal-colored trousers parts from the emerald vest, along with brand new underclothes, a white button-up, black dress shoes, and a set of black gloves. Gold accents line the perimeter of the vest, forming swirling accents, like golden ink from a cursive scrawl. The material of the vest isn’t silk, but rather something Arthur has never felt before - thin and glossy, with square-like patterns that shine differently from each other in the light.

As he sets to pulling the clothing on, he wonders how Francis was able to guess his size correctly, but it’s a short lived thought. Arthur reminds himself that the man is a tailor, and is probably accustomed to sizing others up. Still, the thought of Francis staring at him intently, worse yet, unbeknownst to him, has Arthur feeling quite squeamish.

When he’s fully dressed, he turns to observe himself in the mirror, noting that the clothes do fit very nicely. The gloves are unlike Francis’, coming up to cover the cuffs of his shirt instead of going underneath. Arthur tugs at the edges, and curls his fingers in, finding the fit to be snug, but not cumbersome. The clothes feel fresh and crisp, like linens undisturbed by the wind on their clothes hangers, and Arthur can’t resist smoothing his hands over the legs of his trousers, or poking at the material of his vest.

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to notice, but the heat of the bathroom isn’t quite what it used to be, and Arthur notes with slight confusion that the steam is still pouring out from the bathing rooms. Only… he can’t feel it underneath his clothing. He can most certainly still feel the humidity on his face, but the rest of his body remains cool, undisturbed by the heat.

“Ah,” He breathes out, realization finally striking him. “Spellthread. Right. Bet he did this on purpose.”

Still, he can’t deny that the magic he’s wearing around his body is intriguing, and damn impressive.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, there you are.” Francis greets him with a smile, his eyes wandering down to Arthur’s shoes, and then slowly dragging their way back up to his face. “Ah, good! It looks like it all fits. How does it feel?”

Arthur tugs at the end of the vest, and it doesn’t move much, hugging his torso uniformly. “You’re either good at guessing, or there’s a bit of merit to what you claim to do.”

Francis fixes him with a smirk. “Why would I lie?” He takes a step forward, passing right through Arthur’s personal space, and sets to toying with the hem of his white-button up. Arthur shoots him a baffled look, his shoulders going taut and stiff under Francis’ administrations. “Your collar was sticking up, but I’ll let that pass, considering the circumstances. Also, I hope the color is alright. I thought it would match.”

“Match what?”

“Your eyes, of course. Have you ever looked in a mirror? Also, this,” Francis begins tugging and petting at Arthur’s hair, which has the other immediately grabbing at his wrists to still his actions. Francis sighs, and backs off, giving Arthur a good bit of space again. “I suppose there’s no fixing that, but it isn’t terrible. Not really. We will just call that your trademark.”

“Do you put your hands on everyone you meet?” Arthur bites out, his face flooding with heat.

“It is sort of my job. How else am I supposed to take measurements?” Francis turns, and his line of sight stops once he sees the clock hanging on the wall. “Hm, we will be late if we dawdle any longer. The Lady and your two boys should be in the dining hall soon. Shall we be on our way, Arthur?”

He levels Francis with a wary look, before sighing with a nod. “Fine. Take me there.”

Where the halls lead from the entrance and to the center of the manor is where the dining hall rests. Arthur is led through a towering set of cobalt doors and into a room that must be two stories high. A long, ivory table spans most of its length, covered in a sky-blue dining cloth sporting flowery and snowflake-like designs.

Arthur doesn’t bother to hide his amazement, glancing about himself in a spin. A crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the room, but this one is massive compared to the others he’s seen. It’s ornaments hang low, twinkling in the colorful lights of the violet sconces. Dinnerware lines the tables, with wine glasses stacked neatly in the middle. Art and portraits alike line the walls, but one in particular catches his attention.

The largest one by far, this one displays a trio of people, with the tallest and largest person standing in the back. Two women stand in front; one full-figured and the other thin and angular. He recognizes the one on the left as Katyusha. Her smile is a large contrast to the woman on the right. Her expression is dull, her eyes flat and devoid of any recognizable emotion. Unlike the other two in the portrait, her hair hangs long down her back, though a bow is tied around the front, like a headband.

The man nearly eclipses the two women, even with Katyusha and her generous body. His face sports wide cheekbones, a large, though not physically unpleasant nose, and piercing, violet eyes. While Katyusha’s hair may lie flat against her head, his has a certain waviness to it, as if the wind had somehow permanently ruffled it. Though his eyes appear cold and calculating, his lips sport a gentle smile, perhaps gentler than the one Katyusha is wearing.

Something about it unnerves Arthur. Perhaps it is the duality of nature he sees in the man, but it makes his hair stand on end. _‘That must be Ivan, and the thin one is Natalia. Peculiar family…’_

“Oh, hey!” Arthur is broken out of his thoughts by a familiar voice, and he turns to see Alfred running into the dining hall, with Matthew following behind and a disgruntled Ludwig trailing them. “Artie beat us here first. How about that?”

“We would have gotten here sooner, had you not insisted on stopping and seeing absolutely everything we passed.” Ludwig retorts, coming to a standstill by Matthew’s side.

“Okay, in my defense, I’m just trying to get acquainted with the place I’m gonna be working at.” Alfred approaches Arthur, who has suddenly remembered to appear very, very disappointed, though it doesn’t seem to phase Alfred much. “Wow, and I thought Mattie looked snazzy. It’s like looking at a different person, I swear. But these are really neat, right?” Alfred grabs the lapels of his jacket, and fans it out, seeming impressed with himself.

“Don’t get used to it.” Arthur snaps. “This storm might have us stranded for now, but you can guarantee that as soon as the snow melts, we are leaving.”

“Again with that? C’mon…” Alfred drawls out, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you just appreciate something for once in your life, Artie? If this is the way that Mattie and I are gonna be living, is that really such a bad thing?”

Arthur opens his mouth to retaliate, but finds that the words die on his tongue. He does manage to glower at Alfred, but can’t manage more past that. Ludwig steps forward, clearing his throat, and orders loudly, “You should all take your seats. The Lady will be here soon, and breakfast is well on its way.”

Alfred turns away from Arthur, which allows the latter to deflate and appear crestfallen. “Breakfast? Nobody mentioned anything about that!”

Arthur doesn’t have much time to wallow. He feels a cool hand land on his shoulder, and glances over it to spot Francis sending him a sympathetic smile. “Shall we take our seats?”

He nods, his voice feeling sluggish and quiet to himself. “Right...”

Alfred doesn’t consider where to sit, just takes the first seat available to him. Francis pulls out a seat for Arthur, and while normally he would have made an issue out of being treated like a delicate flower, he can’t find it in himself to do so now. Matthew waits for a moment, before deciding to sit next to Arthur. Ludwig fills in the available spot between the brothers.

“Arthur?” Said person turns to spot Matthew shooting him a tentative smile. His voice is quiet, a whisper so that Alfred won’t hear him. “I’m really sorry about all of this.”

Arthur can’t conjure up enough effort to be angry with Matthew. Contradictory or not, he’s always found it harder to be angry at him over Alfred. Instead, he covers his mouth to muffle a long-winded sigh. “Don’t be. What’s done is done.”

Matthew hangs his head, almost guiltily. “Still… it feels like we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, and either direction seems like the wrong choice at this point. I wish there was a way for everyone to be happy.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, deciding to stay silent once more. Matthew spares him a lingering glance, before looking away. Francis watches and listens to the both of them, his chin resting in his hand. It’s only when the silence has been drawn out that he speaks, “Perhaps you should consider the current situation from a different viewpoint, Arthur.”

“From whose?” Arthur mumbles halfheartedly. “His?” He motions to Alfred, who seems much too excited to be sitting at the dinner table. “Matthew, who can’t even decide if he really wants this?”

Francis shakes his head, “From one of gain, I think. What would be better in the end for all of you?”

“I’m not giving you the easy answer.” Arthur retorts, and Francis doesn’t have the window of time to argue further, because Ludwig is clearing his throat once more. Everyone turns to him, and in turn directs their attention to where his eyes rest.

Making her way through the large doorway is Katyusha, sporting an elegant gown, though still somehow dressed down for the morning. She pauses for a moment, allowing her eyes to drag across all of the newcomers in the room, before stopping on Matthew. Only a moment passes before she’s gliding forward, and gracefully taking the seat at the head of the table.

“Good morning, my Lady.” Ludwig announces clearly. His striking eyes would glance around the table, almost expectantly, before the rest of the room’s inhabitants followed suit.

“Good morning! I hope none of you got too cold last night? That wind was awful to listen to.” Katyusha smooths her hands across her lap, her white, lace-trimmed gloves merging beautifully with her skirt.

“Isn’t it always?” Francis jests, earning a laugh from Katyusha.

Arthur feels the need to comment that it wasn’t that bothersome, but holds his tongue out of wariness. Alfred has no such inclination. “Sounded like some guy was whistling right in my ear. How do you people sleep with that?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, suppressing the urge to groan.

Matthew apparently decides to try and do damage control. “I thought it was kind of nice. Like background noise. I don’t like sleeping in dead silence. And the rooms were so nice and cozy.”

Katyusha apparently doesn’t pay any mind to Alfred’s complaint, deciding to devote her attention to Matthew. “Oh, good! I suppose if our talks go well this morning, you will not mind staying in those rooms? They _are_ the closest to the gardens.” As she pauses between her sentences, the sound of a bell ringing has Katyusha glancing over her shoulder. “It seems we will have to discuss that over breakfast. I imagine the lot of you must be famished.”

A moment later, and servants are flooding into the dining hall, leaving silver dishes covered in lids sitting on the table. Still, Arthur can smell the scents of the food wafting from the platters. He finds his mouth watering, and ends up licking his lips, anticipating what lies underneath.

Alfred isn’t in much better condition, already equipped with a fork in one hand, and a spoon in the other, obviously breaking whatever dining code existed in the manor. His eyes reflect his grin, wide and bright with excitement shining in them.

Matthew is more subtle, appearing pleased, but not overly so. His hands remain in his lap, resting over each other, though Arthur does spy his fingers tapping almost impatiently.

The servants remove the lids from the plates, and exit the room in one, large line. Katyusha claps her hands excitedly, and then motions forward. “Feel free to begin.”

Arthur has barely reached forward before Alfred has grabbed the nearest serving spoon, and is messily carrying ball-fulls of potatoes onto his plate. He fixes Alfred with a scolding glare, but the other doesn’t even manage to look his way for a split second, too intent on stuffing his face. Arthur rolls his eyes, and sets to neatly and slowly placing bits of roast onto his plate.

Matthew eyes the line of food curiously, seeming to debate on what to eat first. He spots a long, thin tray of pastries to his left, and carefully maneuvers it over to his plate. Strawberry filling oozes from the incisions made on the crust.

Katyusha uniformly picks out her food, already decided upon her favorites, and occasionally asks for one of the boys to pass a tray. Ludwig often leaves his seat to help, and his plate remains empty until everyone else is served. Arthur notes that his loyalty is quickly becoming one of his more noticeable qualities.

Breakfast progresses, mostly in shared quietness, save for the occasional abhorrible sound from Alfred. Eventually, it does slow down, and Katyusha takes a moment to wipe her mouth with a napkin before speaking, “You are proficient with garden work, you say?”

“Oh yeah,” Alfred doesn't swallow before answering, his voice coming out as a garbled, muffled mess. Arthur sets to rubbing his temples. “I've been doing it all my life. If it's somehow green, you can bet it won't die with me working on it.”

“I can understand why. I imagine a bad harvest would spell certain doom for your 'family’.” Kayusha’s eyes drift over to Matthew, who immediately places his fork back on his napkin as she does. “What about you?”

“I can help, but…”

Arthur, sensing that Alfred was about to open his mouth again, fills in instead, “Matthew’s smarts would be better put to use than sticking him out in some garden.”

Matthew’s head turns, and the look he points towards Arthur is slightly hopeful, “Are you actually advocating for our stay here?”

That has Arthur pausing, his glass lifted halfway to his lips. He eventually scowls, and covers a string of curses with a prolonged drink of water. Francis grins at the both of them, a small, amused laugh escaping him.

“Unfortunately, I cannot think of anything available for him to do at the moment. Most of our finances and documentation is already handled.” Katyusha doesn't miss how Matthew’s expression falls. “But… I am sure that with time, I can find a use for you. You seem polite and cordial, and our relations with other noble houses could be improved upon.”

“Bad relations?” Arthur questions behind the rim of his glass.

Katyusha nods, grimly. “I am afraid our bloodline’s magic does not sit well with many of the city’s houses. I fear that if it were not for our political influence, we would have been chased out of here long ago.”

“They can always try, but they will never succeed Katyusha.”

All heads turn to spy where the new voice had come from. Arthur peaks over the heads of the table’s inhabitants to spot the man from the portrait standing under the arch of the doorway. A thick, arctic fur-lined coat hangs off of his body, its design a combination of both wealth and practicality.  At his side stood the youngest sister, dressed darker than her older counterpart, and boasting a malicious grimace.

Arthur decides that the portrait did not do Ivan justice, because his height is much more staggering than it let on. He's easily six and a half feet tall, and stockier than most men Arthur has ever seen. His lips are spread into a barely there smile, though there's no warmth held in the expression.

He's even more unnerving up close.

Natalia holds the hand of her older brother, almost protectively, like a parent refusing to let their child leave their side. Arthur’s eyes flit back to Katyusha, who seems pleasantly surprised to see her brother.

And then Alfred has to ruin everything. Again.

“Who's this guy?”

Immediately, violet eyes turn their cold tide over to Alfred, and while Ivan’s face doesn't spell doom or even the slightest hint of annoyance, Arthur still feels a hint of dread run down his spine. “I could ask the same. Are these the new hires you spoke of, sister?”

Katyusha waves Ivan and Natalia over to the table, and the two move in unison to a pair of empty seats. Ivan sits directly across from Alfred, while Natalia mirrors Ludwig. “This would be them. Alfred and Matthew are brothers, of which I am certain you can tell. Arthur is…?”

“Their guardian.” He finishes bluntly for her.

“I do believe that I will stick Alfred in the garden for work. Matthew may, in the future, accompany me to meetings. I believe I might get the best use out of him that way.” Matthew openly gawks for a moment, before composing himself, and averting his eyes. Katyusha’s expression shows clear amusement at his reaction.

“The garden, you say?” Ivan asks, though his eyes never leave Alfred. Apparently, the challenging look in them isn't lost on the latter, as Alfred chooses to abandon his food in favor of shooting a smirk back. “May I just say that if you destroy our garden, I will personally break all of your fingers.”

Alfred is unphased by the threat, letting it bounce off as if it were an idle one. “You can dream of it, pal, but it ain’t happening on my watch. That garden is gonna be greener than Artie’s eyes, even with all this bullshit snow.”

“Oh?” Francis leans forward a bit, and fixes Arthur with a curious stare, before continuing on, “That may be a challenge.”

Arthur tries not to appear ruffled by the comments.

“If you give my brother any trouble at all, or my sister for that matter, I will beat you within an inch of your life.” Natalia’s high octave voice has everyone turning to stare at her, some in amusement, and others in unease.

“Sheesh,” Alfred shakes his head, disbelief written on his face, “I think I like talking to the other sister more. At least she isn't threatening me.”

“Right then,” Katyusha laughs through her words, as if Ivan and Natalia’s commentary is expected and entertaining. “I do believe we have most matters taken care of. Now comes to your pay. Would saying that you made about five to ten pieces of silver a week be fair?”

“If even that,” Alfred comments dryly. “But somewhere along those lines, yeah.”

“How does ten gold pieces a week sound?”

Matthew coughs suddenly, sputtering over his drink and trying desperately not to make a scene, but failing spectacularly. Even Arthur allows his spoon to drop from his fingers, and it lands on the table with a loud clinking noise.

Alfred spares Katyusha a wide-eyed look, “You’re… kidding, right?”

“No?” Katyusha’s reply is full of confusion. “Am I undercutting you? I do admit that most servants make just a bit more, and that is not even taking into account how much Francis makes-”

“That's more than fine!” It's not Alfred, but rather Matthew speaking up. “I mean… that's almost unfathomably good.”

“Really?” There's something akin to pity in Katyusha’s voice, as if the boys’ reactions were almost sad to witness. “Then, I suppose if there are no objections-” She let's her eyes drag over Ivan and Natalia, who make no move to stop her. “Then that settles everything accordingly. As for when you can start,” She first turns to Alfred, who already seems eager to begin. “As soon as the snow let’s up, you can assume your position as gardener. In the meantime, feel free to become acquainted with the premise. And Matthew,” Katyusha pauses for a moment, choosing to simply smile at him as he waits nervously, “We will begin one-on-one sessions to groom you for our dealings with the noble houses. Not that I doubt you will be fast to catch on.”

Matthew nods, and his voice comes out steady, and just a bit more confident than before, “I won't disappoint you, my Lady.”

“What a charmer,” Francis whispers next to Arthur’s ear. Arthur nearly jumps at the sudden intrusion of space. “I do believe Katyusha will take a liking to him, if she hasn't already.”

“Can you stop doing that?” Arthur grumbles half-heartedly.

“I am just saying…” Francis teases, and then discreetly motions to Alfred. “Though, it might be best to keep an eye on that one, lest he step on a certain someone’s toes.”

“Let him learn his lesson the hard way.”

“How cruel!” Despite it being a whisper, Francis’ voice still carries a ridiculous amount of drama to it. “We will see how mean you are when you find him beaten to a pulp.”

Arthur scoffs, and rolls his eyes. “Despite his shortcomings, I believe you'll be surprised to learn that Alfred can't be trampled so easy. But hopefully it will scare some sense into him.”

A sigh, “Whatever you say, mon ami.” And then, a thoughtful pause. “We still have our own agreement to specify upon.”

Arthur groans quietly.

 

* * *

 

“I can send for a courier, and whatever letter you must write to your family can be sent tomorrow morning.”

Breakfast has long since passed, and Arthur is grateful to be away from all the empty smiles, atrocious behavior, and spontaneous threats. However, now he is trapped with Francis, stuck in one of the manor’s lavish sitting rooms, and subject to the other’s insistent poking and prodding in regards to their “deal”.

“Arthur?” Francis rounds the loveseat that Arthur is perched upon, and waves his hand in front of his face. “I do hope you're not ignoring me.”

“I only wish that I could ignore you.”

Francis frowns. “That's hurtful.”

“Your skin is too thin.” Despite himself, Arthur does choose to acknowledge what he said. “I'll write my bloody letter, but who’s to say that I won't be back home before it arrives there?”

“Your boys, for one. I do believe Lady Katyusha would be awfully disappointed if her deals fell through. And if that disappointment reaches Ivan or Natalia, then there will be true hell to pay.”

Arthur’s lips twist into a grimace, and he remains silent, though thoughtful of Francis’ words. Francis refuses to move out of his line of sight, blocking the light from a hearth of crackling flames that rests nearby. Arthur sits in his shadow, reluctant to walk into the deal that he knows there's no way of escaping at this point.

“Please,” Francis’ voice goes soft, imploring. A part of Arthur finds the tone drop to be almost pleasant. “Ten gold pieces a day compared to what you did have?” He finally moves, takes a seat next to Arthur on the couch, though his body is inclined toward the latter’s. “I am even offering to pay you more, personally. And if you truly wanted to, you could even send a portion of it back to your family. Perhaps, after a while, you might even spot them in the city.”

“Please don't say that, Lord, no.” Definitely the last thing Arthur wanted. He didn't need his brothers haggling him for disappearing as well.

Francis chuckles at his reaction, “So, I will ask you one more time, then. Will you work with me, Arthur?”

There's a moment of tense silence, a battle of determined stares between the two; Francis, with his expectant, blue eyes, and Arthur with his defiant, green ones. Arthur’s eyes remain narrowed, with his lips quirked in a way that suggests conflict of desires. Francis seems to sense the impending surrender, and leans in, as if knowing just how to increase the pressure enough to force Arthur’s hand.

It works, and Arthur huffs out with a brash cross of his arms, “Fine, yes. There, are you satisfied now? I'm trapped in this gaudy mansion with murderous siblings and an overeager tailor breathing down my neck. Are you happy?”

“Splendid!” Francis doesn't hide his glee, doesn't even attempt to. He seems to forget how close he's hovering around Arthur as well. Then again, Arthur is beginning to doubt the other has any idea of what personal space is. If it weren't for the ice-bound thread in his clothing, he guarantees he could feel the heat from Francis’ skin. “Then tomorrow, I can show you where I work. I already have a few pieces that could use adjusting, and a few more that need tested as well.”

“You've already had this all planned out, I bet.”

There's a coy smile on Francis’ behalf. “I may have entertained the thought for a long while.”

Thankfully, Francis doesn't push for conversation beyond their agreement, and Arthur is left alone to consider the day’s events in solace.

Evening comes dreadfully quick, and much to Arthur's displeasure, the snow seems to sense that it’s thinning out, so it begins pouring another heaping layer onto itself. Francis spots him standing out on one of the balconies, gathering a dusting of ice on his shoulders, and leads him to the dining hall, where everyone meets for dinner for the first time.

The food is doubly impressive, and more delicious than anything Arthur can ever remember eating - even the far-off memory of his mother’s shepherd’s pie.

Thankfully, Ivan doesn't speak to Alfred much, but he does stare for much of the evening, and Arthur can't tell if that's better or worse. Matthew is seated next to Katyusha, upon her own orders, and Arthur watches her direct him on the proper placement of eating utensils and table manners. Matthew memorizes it all quickly, and the pleased look that stays glued to her face suggests that she's quickly becoming impressed with him.

Ludwig does not eat at the dinner table, but Arthur spots him trailing one of the chefs out of the room. He doesn't catch much, just a head of auburn hair with an insistent curl on one side. He's not sure if the following is on purpose, or coincidental. He figures it's none of his business.

Francis asks him which of the foods is his favorite, his least favorite, how the wine is (Arthur has never had high class wine), and what his diet was like before. Arthur, while annoyed with the questions at first, begins to routinely answer them, with not even a moment of consideration between. Favorite, the smoked salmon. Least favorite, it's all good, but he didn't care for the rice. The wine is better than any fermented hogwash he's ever had before. His dinners used to be bread and maybe a few cuts of cured, dried meat.

Francis’ face turns glum at the end. Arthur feels a twinge of self-deprecation at the pity being directed his way.

Dinner ends, and the boys say their goodbyes and goodnights to him. Arthur doesn’t make mention of his and Francis’ agreement, though he probably should. A bitter pool of spite still burns in his stomach, but at least Arthur can recognize that he shouldn’t be feeling that way. Especially not towards Alfred and Matthew, who haven’t done much wrong besides leaving without an earlier notice.

As he walks down the long, dimly-lit hallway, back to the spiral staircase that leads back to his room, Arthur thinks hard about his behavior, takes a moment to reflect on the past two days, and decides that hindsight has an awful way of making him dislike himself. It’s a wonder that Francis is still so adamant about having his help, after having dealt with his more sour moods.

Only time will tell if the other can truly stomach him, Arthur supposes. He believes that, if given the right amount of time, Francis may grow tired of him and send him packing. Or perhaps the tailor’s patience runs even deeper than Arthur thought. Or, maybe, Francis is just a pitifully lonely sap who’ll take anyone as his company.

That’s a strange thought.

Once he arrives back in his room, today’s clothes are stripped away from his body, and what little heat that remains in his quarters comes rushing back to him. Arthur crawls into bed, dressed only in his underclothes, and wonders if he should tell Francis that he prefers warmer clothing. The violet sconce casting ominous glows across his room dims as his eyes shut, almost sentient in how it can tell he’s ready to call it a day.

The wind is a little calmer that night, but the cold seeps into his room unforgivingly, and he does not sleep through the entire night as he did before.


	3. Tentative and Peckish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew comes to know another patron, Arthur is introduced to his new line of work, and Alfred is visited by a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're already at 46 pages written, so I suppose this isn't going to be the 30k word fic that I planned it to be... oh well! I enjoy writing this! Thank you all for the kind reviews and kudos. It means so much to me. <3

“Rise and shine! We have a busy day today!”

Arthur’s eyes don’t open, but he does roll over onto his stomach, and shove his head as far as it’ll go into the pillows. He feels one of his feet slip free from the covers, and the biting chill of the morning has him curling into himself, desperate to stay within his cocoon of warmth.

Francis can be heard moving about the room, and the approaching footsteps coming near his bed make him want to disappear, or perhaps play dead in the hopes that Francis will leave him alone. However, no such mercy is offered towards his way, as Francis quite literally yanks the blankets off of him, and sends them sprawling to the bottom of the bed.

Arthur goes stiff, and immediately wraps his arms about himself, his teeth already beginning to chatter, “What in bloody hell are you doing?”

“Waking you up, of course. Come now, Arthur, we can’t spend all day in bed. There is much to do, plenty to talk about, and I am starting to get behind on my work.”

Arthur tries to reach for the duvet again, but Francis’ hand is there, shooing his own away. Although childish, Arthur levels him with a sore glare. “And what if I weren’t decent?”

“Then that would have been entertaining, but alas, not everyone can hope for that.” Arthur wants to believe that Francis is merely joking, but he’s starting to think otherwise, with that coy smile of his.

“My word, do you have any shame at all?”

He laughs, and waves his hand dismissively, “What do I have to be ashamed of?” Francis shifts his arm, and it’s here that Arthur notices that he’s carrying a set of clothing with him. The clothing is set down upon the bed before him, and the vest covering the trousers and button-up is a strange sort of hazel color this time. Arthur spies something else folded underneath it, but can’t tell what he’s looking at. “Yesterday was, admittedly, me flaunting a bit of my threadwork, but today’s goal is to stay warm. The manor’s hallways and rooms will get colder and colder the longer this storm keeps up.”

Arthur peels the layers of clothing away from the bottom piece, and unfolds it to find that it’s heavier and longer than he previously thought. The material is a deep, dark velvet, with the inside sporting cotton so that it won’t catch and snag on his clothing. The neck is sewn together, with a hole big enough for him to slide his head through, and a long hood hanging off of the back.

It reminds him of the woman he saw lighting the braziers.

“I suppose I will leave you to dress. Or I can simply turn my back, if you want. Really, we are going to be having quite the close working relationship, so I don’t think there is any reason to-”

“Out, out, out.” Arthur rushes him impatiently, and shoos Francis away with his hand.

Francis makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, and throws up his hands, “Alright, fine. I will be waiting outside. Try not to take too long, Arthur. Like I said, we have a busy day today.”

The tailor backs away from the bed, and turns on his heel, exiting the room in quick, measured steps. Arthur waits until the door shuts behind him, before sighing and rubbing at his tired eyes. He doesn’t quite recall ever feeling so tired in the mornings before, even with how much later he’s been sleeping in. He supposes that it must be the bed, or perhaps the fresh clothing he’s sleeping in, but something is sapping all of his energy away.

Dressing proves to be quite difficult, mostly because he struggles with how cold the flooring is. Really, how the wooden floorboards could prove to be icier than the dirt flooring of his old home is beyond him. Then again, blizzards weren’t quite the norm back at the farm, so there is that. That doesn’t change the fact that Arthur bounces from foot to foot, trying to spare his numb toes from the biting chill.

The clothing goes on easy, even the velvet cape, which proves to be heavier than he thought. It sits on his shoulders like a weight, and drapes over his arms, but Arthur has to admit that it is quite cozy. He hugs the cloak around him, and finds that it retains heat quickly, and the soft cotton material on the inside reminds him of lying in a bed. His flesh warms considerably underneath the vest and trousers, a stark contrast to the consistently cool temperatures of yesterday’s dress.

He searches for the shoes from the day before, messily strewn off to the side of the bed, but finds a pair of black boots waiting for him instead. Knee-length and sewn together with suede fabric, Arthur finds that they keep his feet nice and toasty, as was probably Francis’ intention for them.

There’s a mirror hanging over a chest in the room, and Arthur turns to observe himself in it. His hair is once again sticking up in all directions, but it’s a definite improvement from its former condition. Appearing dry and fluffy instead of oily and stringy, he muses that he does look quite fetching now, especially with the stylish clothing hugging his body. The cape is his favorite from the ensemble, and not just for its warmth.

When he emerges from his room, Francis is waiting for him, having taken to leaning against the wall by his door. Arthur locks his room behind him, stowing the brass key into his pocket, before turning to face Francis with a bored expression.

Francis steps away from the wall, and cants his head at him, “Oh, don’t look so apathetic. You and I are going to have plenty of fun.”

“Is that what you call it?” Arthur retorts, which only earns a slight huff from Francis.

“Do you respond to everyone with so much snark in your tone?”

“Not quite, but I fear it’s the only way I can talk to you without losing my mind.” Arthur smirks at him, finding the slightly offended look on Francis’ face to be entertaining.

“We will have to fix that, then.” Francis’ voice dips down, not to a threatening tone, but to one filled with resolute determination.

 

* * *

 

When Matthew awakes, it takes him no time to notice that a cart of hanging clothing has been sneakily wheeled into his room.

Already having come to memorize his new quarters, the recent addition stands out like a lone tree in a field, and he finds himself wandering over to it, not minding the chill of the floor, to observe what waits for him on the racks.

His hand flips through the various sets, finding that they all resemble Arthur’s from yesterday, though there is something inexplicably more… regal about them. He contemplates that they must be here as a welcoming gift into his tutelage under Katyusha, and as such, she’s probably expecting him to be dressed in one of the outfits.

Matthew at first doesn’t consider picking out a specific one, but then backtracks, thinking that if he’s to be more observant and thoughtful, then perhaps he should begin reflecting that in all the things he does. So he chooses a violet colored ensemble, with swirling, blue patterns, and a set of white-laced gloves.

The color is closer to what he’s seen Katyusha donning, and trying to contrast her almost seems like a foolish cry for attention. The last thing Matthew wants is for the Lady to think him immature. He fears that Alfred has already set a poor example for the both of them, but berates himself a moment later for thinking that.

His twin is just eager, and energetic, is all. Not everyone can afford to be so lively as Alfred, and those who can’t are often the ones that judge him hardest. Matthew won’t allow himself to be wrangled into that category.

He ends up wandering out into the hallway after getting dressed, and notices upon trying the door that Alfred has still not risen out of bed yet. Matthew considers waking him, but what for? A single glance out of any of the windows lining the hall alerts him to the fact that the blizzard continues to rage on. So he closes the door quietly, and continues on his way.

The hour is quite early, reminiscent of his days on the farm - and Matthew allows himself to laugh at that, because _those days_ were only two days ago - and as such, the halls are a little more lively with servants and the like. Early to rise, late to bed, Matthew surmises that their work schedule isn’t too far off from his old one, though the work is obviously done in higher comfort.

Katyusha hadn’t given him any orders or instructions past last night, and Matthew gets the paranoid idea that perhaps she is testing his intuition or drive. In that case, he decides that he won’t disappoint, so he heads to the first place that he deems acceptable; the dining hall.

When he enters, it’s unlike the morning or evening before. Servants are bustling around the table, chatting each other up with loud, jovial voices. He spots a few of the kitchen’s chefs partaking in the early first breakfast, and upon looking down the line of them, spots Ludwig’s familiar face.

He’s nestled in between an empty seat, and an animated person, whose hands seem to do most of the talking for him. Matthew cracks a smile at that, noting that the contrast between the two personalities is almost comical. Since Ludwig is the only one he recognizes, Matthew circles around the table, garnering a few surprised looks his way, and takes the seat by the stern guard and his… friend.

Surprisingly, the man next to Ludwig beats the guard to a greeting, and sends an enthusiastic wave in Matthew’s direction. “Oh, hi there! You look fancy. Are you new? You look new.”

“I’m pretty new.” Matthew responds in kind, suppressing a smile.

Ludwig glances between the two, and it’s here that Matthew ashamedly notices that he’s not quite dressed for his guardly duties yet, but instead sports casual wear for the morning. “Feliciano,” He motions to the bubbly chef. “This is Matthew, one of the newest hires. He has a brother but,” Ludwig glances around the table.

“He’s sleeping in this morning. Alfred has a bad habit of doing that.” Matthew eyes the plates of food lining the table, and then his own empty one, contemplating whether or not he’s welcome to the servants’ meal.

Feliciano must notice, because then he’s shoving a basket full of rolls his way. “Go ahead and eat. If you work here, then you’re welcome to the food, too! And… I guess even if you didn’t, no one would have a problem with you eating. So ignore that first part!”

Matthew laughs softly, and steals a roll from the basket. He pulls it apart into two pieces, and finds that the inside is stuffed with bits of cheese. “I just don’t want to intrude, is all. But thank you.” He nibbles on a piece of the roll, finds it to be fluffy and still warm from the oven, and closes his eyes at the taste.

“Have you heard back from your big brother yet, Lud?” Feliciano is leaned over the table, his hand reaching out blindly for a platter full of cannolis.

“His inquisition is supposed to end soon, though I’m sure Pol’s nobles were hard-pressed for information.”

The chef takes a generous bite out of the cannoli, sending ricotti oozing out of the end. “Those guys are always so… I don’t know. They like to talk about everything else. But their nobles are funny! The last time we had a ball, I accidentally mistook one of them for a girl.”

“I’m afraid I know which one you’re talking about.” Ludwig grumbles, his eyes narrowing with slight distaste at Feliciano’s messy treatment of his food.

Matthew finishes his small roll of bread, though now his curiosity is piqued. “You have a brother, Ludwig?”

He nods, though Matthew notices that his face scrunches up into a conflicted expression. “An older one. You wouldn’t know we were brothers unless I told you, however.”

“Why’s that?”

“Where do I even begin?” Ludwig closes his eyes, and his fingers come to rub at his temples. “Gilbert is… eccentric. Loud and brash. Lacking a few manners here and there. Not really the type for an inquisitor, but he is one nonetheless. I suppose his position is earned by his utter zealotry at times.”

“Reminds me of Alfred,” Matthew supposes that Gilbert must not be too awful, but then again, Ludwig probably holds him to a higher expectation than he does for his own brother. “I wonder what will happen if those two meet?”

“That would be exciting. Wouldn’t it?” Feliciano seems on board with the idea, though Ludwig’s expression spells dread.

“I don’t even want to contemplate the chaos that would ensue from that.”

Matthew laughs, and picks up another roll to nibble at. “I suppose we can only hope that their paths never cross?”

There’s a sigh from Ludwig, one that preemptively shows his weariness at the possibility. “I wouldn’t hold your breath. I’ve found that if two things are loud enough, they’ll eventually find their way to each other.”

 

* * *

 

An opulent door stands between Arthur and Francis’ working quarters, and suddenly, the realization that he'll probably having hands touching and tugging around his body has his face turning warm.

Francis seems almost giddy, clearly excited to start his day with his new assistant. He fishes out a set of fancy looking keys, and signals out the ivory one that boasts a latticework head. Arthur remains quiet, a nervous ball of energy at his side as the tailor unlocks his door.

Then, Francis is stepping through, and the room is already pre-lit with illuminating, gold sconces. The flames that burn in them are bright, blinding to look at almost, and definitely meant for high-detailed work. Francis urges him inside, motions with his hand to come closer, and Arthur obeys with slight reluctance.

“Welcome to my humble abode! Though, I do suppose it isn't entirely humble… nonetheless, this is where I keep most of my work.” Francis splays his hands, twirls around his room in a manner only he could pull off, and waits patiently for Arthur’s reaction.

Upon observation, Arthur decides that the room truly does reflect its owner, a clear representation of elegance and almost controlled chaos, with fabric and clothing and tailoring supplies strewn _everywhere_. A loveseat on one side, a stool situated in front of a large table, and various mannequins sporting half-finished designs take up the majority of the space.

Various spools of twinkling thread line a shelf, whilst other, less inconspicuous spools rest on the table, half-unraveled, as if abandoned in the middle of work. Arthur wonders if perhaps one set is the enchanted one, and the other awaits to be infused with magic.

The room does not entirely end here, but instead boasts an open doorway to another, though Arthur can't spy any specific things past the sheer curtain that covers the entrance. Something about it screams intimate, however, so he chooses to ignore it for now.

“Somehow, I'm not disappointed.” He admits with open honesty.

“Oh? Is that a good thing?” Francis lingers by, steps closer to Arthur, who has become unobservant of his own space.

“It definitely appears to be busy and- gah!” He turns, only to find Francis right at his side, hovering almost uncomfortably close, and the sight of him makes Arthur jump. “Will you stop doing that!”

Francis only smiles at him, though it seems full of mischievous intent. “If you cannot handle this, then how will you handle me fitting clothes around you?” There's a silent grimace on Arthur’s part, an unsure look sent Francis’ way. Then, he's startling again at the feel of a tentative touch at his waist. He does not try to move away, however, seeming more determined to stay still. Francis seems to appreciate the effort, though his pleasure in the act stems more from the lack of rejection. “I promise to never touch you inappropriately, but my hands will be on your body. I am a professional, Arthur, and a respectful man at that. Don't think so low of me, okay?”

Then, Francis’ hands are sliding off of Arthur’s waist, and he's releasing a held breath as silently as he can. “Just… just get on with it, already. What do we have to do today?”

“We will mostly be fitting you with some nearly finished designs. I’m also afraid to say that you will probably spend a good amount of time doing nothing in between fittings. Unless… you would like to help me even more?”

Arthur eyes the supplies lining the table, doesn’t recognize what most of them even are, and tries to hide the perplexed look on his face. “I’m certain your job doesn’t require two sets of hands. Seems like it would get awfully clumsy at that point.”

Francis shakes his head, “I’m not asking you to help me sew anything. Just fetch me a few supplies when I need it. If you do not know what they look like, I’ll try my best to explain them to you. If I hadn’t any need of constantly standing up and moving around, I could probably get a little further on my work.”

“That just sounds lazy.” Comes Arthur’s sour retort.

“It’s smart and efficient.” There’s no real anger or annoyance in Francis’ tone, but it does harden ever so slightly. “You don’t have to do it, if you are so opposed.”

Arthur sighs and rolls his eyes, “Fine, I’ll be your errand boy on top of your living mannequin.” Truthfully, he just doesn’t want to subject himself to sitting still for lengthy periods of time, but everything with Francis has to be a challenge. Somehow, Arthur has to preserve some of his stubborn pride.

“I love how adamantly opposed you are to everything. Does it give you a good sense of rebellion, or do you truly just hate most things?” Lo and behold, Francis’ tone has adopted some snark to it, and Arthur bristles at the jabbing comment.

“Are you comparing me to a troublesome teenager?” He crosses his arms, and pointedly turns his nose up at Francis.

“Perhaps, if I already didn’t know about your adopted sons. They have set a very good compliant example, thus far. If only a certain someone could mimic that behavior…” Francis, who’s moved over to his working table, glances over his shoulder at Arthur.

Arthur glares back. “If you’re going to insult me, then perhaps I should have backed out of this deal after all.” Threateningly, Arthur takes a step back, towards the door that lead him here.

Francis seems to freeze at that, and then he’s turning around with an apologetic expression. “I was merely joking. Don’t leave. Please.”

Funny, Arthur thinks, how the man can go from coy to pleading in a matter of seconds. Still, Francis’ tone makes his stomach twinge with guilt. The one time that he returns an ounce of Arthur’s venom, and then he’s trying to back out on him. It makes him feel like a hypocrite.

He sighs, and Francis seems to sense the tone shift. “I’m not leaving… But.” Arthur holds up his hand, silencing any words before they can come. “I don’t like being belittled. No more sly remarks.”

“I apologize. However, I think we should both hold ourselves to that agreement, non? Let’s try to be nice, from here on out. I haven’t even gotten to know you that well, yet!” He pauses for a moment, turning back to take a seat at his table. When Francis speaks again, his voice is softer, meeker. “You do seem very interesting.”

Arthur averts his eyes down, and chooses not to say anything to that.

Eventually, Francis falls back into his usual cycle of work, and Arthur sits in the back, on the loveseat, and watches him with dull interest. It’s quiet work for the most part, but then Francis takes up humming songs that Arthur isn’t familiar with to pass the time, and his voice is undeniably melodic and soothing.

Arthur finds himself nearly nodding off, until Francis is calling out his name, and asking for an item from one of his shelves. The first few ones trump Arthur, and he lets his eyes wander over the supplies with no direction, until Francis is amusedly describing to him what it is. Most of them are run-of-the-mill; beads and thread, boxes boasting expensive looking, fine jewels, and needles with which to pin Francis’ work so that it doesn’t get in his way.

Eventually, Arthur is heading over to another cabinet, this one boasting mortars of peculiar looking dust and bottles of fine shards and liquids that Arthur can’t even begin to place. He swears he spots an entire bottle of wine, unopened and undisturbed, sitting in the corner of one of the shelves, but makes no comment on it.

As he returns to Francis with full arms, Arthur curiously peers around the other man’s shoulders, trying to find some clue of what he could be doing with them. Finally, he breaks down and asks, “What on earth is all this rubbish for?”

“Firstly, it’s not rubbish. It’s components.” Francis’ eyes never leave his work, and he mechanically reaches out to take the components from Arthur’s arms. “Secondly, they are used for enchanting items. I am not sure if you’re aware, Arthur, but producing magic at your fingertips, and then saturating an item with magic are two different things.”

“How so?” Arthur leans just a bit closer, bends over the curve of Francis’ shoulder to watch him unravel a spool of golden thread.

“How do I explain this? People… human beings, are inherently tied to magic. Some of us will never experience it, however, while others will occasionally get a spark of it, and a few will master their domain. Inanimate objects? Not so much. So we must find a physical medium for which we can imbue these items with magic. That is where components come into play.” As if to demonstrate, Francis waves his hand over the plain looking dust in the mortar. As it passes over, the dust changes color, and takes on the appearance of finely shredded ice. It produces a small, barely noticeable blue glow, which has Arthur staring at it with a mixture of confusion and wonderment.

“That’s… interesting.” Arthur sorely wants to ask how Francis did that, but he also doesn’t want to sound silly, either.

“You could probably call it a mixture of enchanting and transmogrification. This is our physical medium, though. Once we seal this into the thread, it will adopt the magic I poured into it. Fascinating, isn’t it?” For once in a small while, Francis finally spares Arthur a proud smile.

“It’s something,” Arthur murmurs quietly. “Guessing by the appearance, I assume this is meant to keep you nice and cool?”

“You would be correct. Would you like to feel it?”

There’s a sliver of hesitation in Arthur’s voice. “Is… is that safe?”

“It’s just a little frost magic, Arthur. Nothing that will kill you. If that were the case, then why would I be sewing it into my clothes? A bit counterproductive, don’t you think?”

Arthur hovers a little closer, and Francis leans out of the way so he can run his finger along the perimeter of the mortar. As he does, he notices that a thin sheen of ice cakes off from the edges, and indeed, the clay is cold, but not uncomfortably so. Still, he doesn’t feel comfortable with sticking his hands in the shards, and that discomfort shows clearly.

Francis notices, and rectifies it by placing his hand over Arthur’s and urging it down into the mortar. He gasps, feeling the icy shavings spread around his fingers, but the chill isn’t the only thing he can feel. Something invigorating seeps right through his gloves, and sends goosebumps crawling across his skin. It feels almost like a dull thrumming, and almost as if Arthur’s hand refuses to stay still. It only takes a few seconds of exposure, and then he’s yanking his hand free of Francis’, and rubbing it against his vest.

Francis retracts his hand, almost sadly, “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Is it supposed to feel like that?” Arthur asks, almost breathlessly. There’s not much understanding in the look Francis gives him. “That… thrumming, or whatever. It felt like it was trying to go beneath my skin.”

“Ah,” Realization finally dawns on the tailor. “That’s right, you have never felt magic before. But yes, that is what that is. I personally enjoy the feel, but then again, magic has also been a large part of my life since I was a child.”

“It feels strange and invasive.”

Francis shrugs, and returns to his work, sliding the mortar over to his spool of thread, where he will no doubt begin imbuing it with the component. “Perhaps it’s because it isn’t your magic domain?” Arthur spares a glance at his hands. “It would feel more natural to me, being my domain and all. There are times when I’m working with flame magic that I feel much of the same way you just did. Almost like it doesn’t belong, non?”

“You keep mentioning that. Domains.”

“Everyone has a domain. Even if a person doesn’t come to realize their potential with magic, they will subconsciously represent their domain. And a domain… a domain is the class of magic with which they are born with. There are common domains, their less uncommon offshoots, and then ones that not even I can completely understand. Unfortunately, I do have quite the common one myself.”

Arthur arches a brow at him, curiously. “And that would be…?”

Francis head shifts slightly, and his deep, blue eyes meet Arthur’s temporarily. “Ice, of course. Why do you think the Braginsky’s value my work? Those siblings take to the cold, fittingly enough.”

“But you know other types of magic.”

“Only a little bit. Enough to throw the simplest enchantments on clothing. But even then, it’s not a lot. This is what I am best at.” He motions to the glowing mortar, with its finely shred ice.

Arthur nods, makes a small noise of recognition in his throat, but inquires no further. Francis mentions that he’ll stay busy for the next hour or so, and that Arthur should probably make himself comfortable again. He points him to a small bookshelf boasting a humble collection of novels, to which Arthur is grateful to have the permission to.

He wastes away time with reading about Rus’ history, and though most of it is dreadfully boring, it’s a better alternative to sitting in silence.

Eventually, Francis does stand from his stool, and the spool of thread is once again wrapped up, and neatly placed back on the shelf. The mortar that once boasted the ice is empty, with only a few remnants of dust clinging to it. He turns to Arthur, who’s taken to propping his feet up on a nearby ottoman, and clasps his hands together. “I do believe it’s time we got to fitting.”

“About time,” Arthur grouses, and dog ears the book to be picked up again later.

“Ooh, is that eagerness?” Francis gracefully walks over to one of the mannequins, and begins unclasping a nearly finished vest from it.

“Not quite, but I’m sure it has to be better than reading about King Yaroslav and his fifth conquest of a poor village.”

“Educating yourself, hm?” The vest is splayed open, like a welcoming pair of arms ready to embrace Arthur.

Arthur stares at it as if it were a giant bug he didn’t want to touch. He’s suddenly reminded that he’s wearing a vest already, and his hands navigate unsurely over to the buttons. “Should I-”

“Take that off.”

This is suddenly a little more embarrassing than he imagined. Arthur does shrug the vest off, but it feels more like he’s stripping for someone than trying a piece of clothing on. Francis beckons him over, and the coquettish smile on his face is doing him no favors. “You seem much too excited for this.”

“Your cute reactions make it hard not to be.” Arthur sputters at that, stopping dead in his tracks to narrow his eyes menacingly at the tailor. All he gets is a hearty laugh in return. Francis shakes the vest at him. “Come now, we have a few more pieces after this!”

“Call me cute again, and see what happens.” Still, Arthur walks over to stand before Francis, and allows the other to turn him around so that the vest can be slipped on. One arm out, and then the other, and the glancing touches only serve to make him feel even more flustered. Francis doesn’t seem to notice, or care, because his touches only become more insistent once the vest is actually on. The cool cocoon of fabric hugging his chest is a terrible contrast to the building heat in his face.

Arthur tries his best not to fidget when he feels hands smooth down his side, or even when he feels fingers probing at the inside of the vest and hovering over his ribs. He wants to believe that Francis is honestly just doing his job, but there’s a small part of his mind that’s trying to convince him that the tailor is purposely messing with him.

“How bloody long does it take to check everything?” He feels Francis’ fingers slip away, and his body tenses at an oncoming bout of shivers. Arthur goes stock still for a moment, hoping that Francis won’t notice.

“Just checking to see if everything is pieced together correctly. No need to be so impatient, Arthur.” He ‘tsks’ at the self-imposed model. Francis takes a step back, though his hands are held out, as if he were looking through a frame. His eyes travel up and down Arthur’s torso, unreadable, though evidently focused. Arthur is at least thankful that he’s taking it somewhat serious. It still doesn’t help his predicament much, however. He wonders how anyone can stand to have such prying eyes on them for so long. “How does it feel? Tight? Loose?”

He allows his arms to drop, and while the fit is a bit looser than what he was wearing before, it’s not terrible. Arthur practices a few moving motions with his arms, and hesitates when he feels the fabric stretch a bit at that, but then quickly decides that this is probably want Francis wants to see. Best to work out all the kinks than send it to a customer with unknown defects.

“It feels alright. Maybe put this on someone a little bigger.”

“I noticed that it was a bit loose upon inspection,” Francis motions for him to go still again, and Arthur resumes his stationary position once more. “It’s of no concern, though. As long as we can discern whether or not it can be worn is the important part. Now, how does the temperature feel? Too cold or not noticeable enough?”

“A bit colder than the one you gave me.” Arthur can feel goosebumps forming along his ribs and stomach.

“Uncomfortable?”

“Not quite, but it’s not exactly to my liking.” The chill around his torso is beginning to feel almost unpleasant, and Arthur is suddenly craving the heated magic from his old vest. “Is this what you make for those siblings?”

“Similar yes, but their clothing tends to run very cold.” Francis cants his head, his thumb coming to stroke at the dusting of hair on his chin. “I suppose someone will still want this.”

“Is that all, then?”

“Not even close! We have a few more pieces to try on. Don’t tell me that you’re already growing bored of this…” Francis’ hands reach out again, help strip the vest from Arthur while his model looks anywhere else but at him.

This is worse, Arthur thinks, because now it feels like someone else is stripping him for their own entertainment. “I can take this off, you know.”

“I only figured I would help.” Francis’ responds fairly. “You are so peckish towards touching, Arthur. Is there a reason for that, or do you just become easily flustered?”

“That’s an awfully personal question to be asking, don’t you think?” Arthur goes defensive at that, guarded and a little miffed. Francis walks behind him, and he can hear the other replacing the vest with another. Francis lets the silence drag on, until he’s returned and he’s face to face with the other again.

“How else will we get to know each other? It feels as though all we’ve done is bicker. I’m just genuinely curious, is all.” They go through the motions of fitting Arthur with the vest again, and Francis works even slower this time, allowing his hands to linger longer than usual. Arthur spies the smile that Francis is trying to fight down.

“Did you ever consider that perhaps you should start from an acceptable point? No one jumps straight into stuff like that.” Francis laughs, gently, and Arthur can’t decide if he hates or likes the sound. He glances off to the side, choosing to let his eyes focus on a pattern on the wallpaper, and decides to answer nonetheless, “You try having someone you don’t know too well getting handsy with you. I’m sure anyone would feel a bit skittish under those circumstances.”

“I have to disagree with that,” Arthur can sense something in Francis’ tone, a sultry sort of edge that makes his heart jump into his throat for a moment. “I don’t mind having hands on me, even if it is a stranger. As long as they’re not hurting me, non? But I suppose everyone feels differently in regards to that. I shouldn’t have assumed you would share the sentiment.”

“W-Well… good, then. Because I don’t.” He huffs out a breath, and it’s a little too shaky for his liking. “I would have to know them, first, because otherwise, it’s just too strange.”

“Oh?” Francis tugs on the front of Arthur’s vest, jostles him ever so slightly, and then eyes the buttons with approval. “Then I’m hoping I can get to know you well, Arthur. I’m sure we’ll become quite close over time.”

If his heart was in his throat, then now it’s in his stomach, and Arthur refuses to say anything to that. Mostly because he doesn’t trust his voice to stay true to its intentions. Instead, he chooses to remain silent and let Francis work, and only speaks when the other asks him questions about the clothing.

It’s a longer evening than he anticipated, and he stays filled with nervous energy all throughout it.

 

* * *

 

The garden, now that he’s taken the time to actually look at it, is pitifully bare. Alfred blows a tuft of bangs out of his eyes and takes in all two flowers with something akin to disappointment.

Although having woken up late (and really, shouldn’t have Mattie woken him up?), he did take the time to ask one of the servants to show him the supply closet. All the tools were accounted for, and bags of dark soil sat in the corners, but seemed undisturbed for the most part. As if they were basically useless, which Alfred could see why now.

You couldn’t grow anything in this snow, let alone do anything with half of the tools they had. While the snow lilies and white roses were beautiful, and fit the aesthetic of the manor, it did leave a lot to be desired. There wasn’t enough color in the garden, and as such, it felt kind of lifeless and dull.

Alfred clears off a heaping of snow from one of the stone borders lining the garden, and takes it as a makeshift seat. He rests his cheek in one hand and looks out at the pitifully plain garden, and the endless pile of snow trying its best to smother everything. Despite the awful odds, he did promise that he would transform this garden into something amazing, but now that he’s actually thinking about it, it almost seems damn near impossible.

First of all, he’d have to get seeds for new flowers, and on top of that, carve out new spaces for them to be planted. He thinks back to Katyusha’s older brother, and his creepy threat. Alfred spares his fingers a concerned look, and purposely slips his hands inside his pockets. His mood plummets a bit, and all he can bring himself to do is stare out at the intimidating challenge for a good bit, while his mind goes crazy with ideas to get himself out of this mess.

Thirty minutes pass, and the only thing that breaks Alfred out of his sullen reverie is the feeling of water splattering on his cheek. He rubs it away with his hand, and glances up to see if he’s sitting under something that’s melting. All his eyes meet are the sky, though the clouds have become noticeably darker since he first sat down.

He decides to pay it no mind, figuring it’s nothing he should be thinking about. But one droplet turns into a few, and soon, he feels the water pelting his clothing and hair, growing heavier as the minutes tick by. Alfred finally stands, and spins around the garden, looking for someone else, because this has to be some sort of a prank.

No one is there, however, and the drops grow heavier and heavier, and more numerous than before. Finally, he spares one last glance up at the sky, and finds that the snow is slowly being drowned out by a wave of rain. Alfred pauses in his steps, not at all mindful of how the rain nearly strikes his eyes, but instead utterly confused at the drastic weather change.

He holds his hands out, as if to make certain that what he was seeing and feeling was real. But lo and behold, it was rain, and it was hastily turning the snow into piles of mushy ice. The small drizzle quickly transforms into a torrential downpour, and Alfred gets completely soaked in it. He does not move out from underneath the rain however, half mesmerized and half confused at the sudden turn of events.

The snow melts away from the garden’s bushes and flowers, letting the tops of blooming plants and vines show through once more. The cobble pathway peaks through the melting snow on the ground, showing the way from the gate to the manor. Alfred watches as the garden seems to dissolve into something more lively, and the snow surrounding the manor and the city seems to dissipate entirely.

His eyes turn every which way, taking it all in, but freeze on one spot. Up, beyond the tops of the trees in the garden and peaking out from the third floor window is Ivan, his features almost unreadable due to the distance. Alfred turns, tries to discern what he’s doing, now utterly soaked by the downpour of rain that is beginning to turn strangely warm.

Ivan places his hands against the window, and Alfred can see his head turning, almost wondrously, as if he too can’t believe what he’s seeing. It takes a short amount of time for the manor’s patriarch to find Alfred, and when Ivan does notice him, his stare doesn’t waver in the slightest.

Alfred can only the return the look for so long, before a sense of pressure is making him turn away. Still, he can feel those cold, calculating eyes watching him, making his skin prick with something akin to apprehension. He pulls his sleeve up and rubs the goosebumps away from his skin. A few steps are taken backward, allowing him to come under the cover of an awning extending from the manor’s entrance. Mostly, though, he’s shielded from Ivan’s penetrating eyes, and as such, let’s a small breath of relief escape him.

The garden turns green once again, with only small puddles of slush remaining, and Alfred can’t decide if it’s a miracle or a blessing.


End file.
